


The Throne

by VeryBadMau



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Control Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Not a Happy Story, Sibling Rivalry, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 06:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryBadMau/pseuds/VeryBadMau
Summary: Malik has always fought against his destiny; Isis has always fought for what she thought was right; Rishid has always watched. Pre and post-series Ishtar family angst. One-shot.





	The Throne

Author’s Notes: Amidst typing out what was supposed to have been tongue-in-cheek humor about the Ishtars' contrasting character traits via an online chat, an idea sprung from the murky depths and I succumbed to a horrendous cliché: a dysfunctional, ill-spirited Ishtar family fic. I can't say I'm happy I did this because I very much prefer supportive, humorous, and saccharine Ishtar family feels (like [Torque](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15623409)), but this grim plot bunny wanted out of its cage, so here we have it.

I don't like this story. It is ugly, unpolished, and fragmented, but I suppose that is appropriate given its subject matter.

Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! and its characters are copy-written to Kazuki Takahashi and Konami.

Warnings: Sibling rivalry, sexism, murder, conspiracies, allusion to penis envy, and messy family dynamics.

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

 

**C h a o s**

 

“I don’t want to do it, Isis,” Malik sniffles into her chest. “Please, _please_ , take me outside. You, me, Rishid, we can all escape and live together.”

 

She runs her fingers through his hair and hugs him back, the candle on her desk flickering, struggling with the last of its wick.

 

“I can’t, Malik,” she whispers sadly. “The world is not what you think.”

 

“But you know what the world is like! So you can help me!” he sobs, bunching the fabric of her robe in his hands and twisting desperately. “Please, Isis, don’t let him cut me up!”

 

“I know it will hurt, little brother. I cannot begin to imagine the agony, but...” She bites her lip and rubs circles over his shoulder blades. “You must endure it, Malik, for this family. It is your birth right, your _destiny_.”

 

With her declaration, Malik stops crying.

 

Her touch becomes unwelcome, and he pushes Isis away with a snarl.

 

“You’re so _selfish_!” Malik cries. “You’ve _always_ had the freedom to do whatever you want and you won’t share it with me because you’re _jealous_!”

 

She stares at him with a firm gaze through the dying candlelight, but he sees her hands tremble.

 

“I do not envy your mutilation, little brother,” Isis says. “But this is what must be. To deviate from our designated paths will only invite disaster.”

 

“You sound just like _him_ ,” Malik scoffs. “I don't know why you bother. It won't impress him, you know. What _you_ think doesn't matter. Father doesn't care what you do. He _never_ has.”

 

Malik gets the reaction he wants.

 

He regrets it immediately.

 

The shaking in her hands cease, and the glint in her eyes reminds him too much of the shine of the ceremonial knife in their father’s study.

 

“… Get out of my room.”

 

A tear slips down her cheek, and he whimpers at the sight.

 

“Isis, I’m sor—”

 

“GET OUT!”

 

He runs away, as fast as he can, to avoid the candle and its holder when she throws them across the room.

 

Malik’s footsteps fade, and Isis sobs as the light is extinguished.

 

Rishid bows his head with a frown, and he does nothing.

 

**S u c c e s s i o n**

 

There is a phrase she heard one of the actors on the television say: “Told you so!”

 

Yet there is no haughtiness or smug satisfaction as she glances at her father’s corpse.

 

“What will we tell him?” Rishid asks.

 

“Malik thinks it is the Pharaoh’s doing, thanks to the spirit,” she sighs. “The truth will undo him.”

 

“Then what will we do?” Rishid asks again. “He speaks only of revenge and running away...”

 

“Then take care of it,” Isis says, and her tone reminds him too much of her father. “He has only seen a sliver of the world. He will not survive so much as a week unattended.”

 

Rishid takes her words into careful consideration.

 

“… I understand, Lady Isis.”

 

**L a b o r**

 

“He’s so heavy,” Anzu groans, her hollow eyes twitching with a sideways grimace. “I can’t do _anything_ in this weak female body.”

 

“Stop complaining and straighten your posture,” Isis says. “There is nothing wrong with her body. You struggle because you’re compromising her structure.”

 

The muscles in Isis’ arms tense as she clenches Rishid’s legs to either side of her torso. Her little brother whimpers and finds it difficult to hold the upper half of Rishid’s body off the ground, hands slipping from underneath the man’s arms.

 

“Stop standing bow-legged,” Isis commands, glancing at him over her shoulder. “You’re going to drop him.”

 

“We wouldn’t be doing this if you had just walked out of your room and told us what was going to happen,” Malik says accusingly with Anzu's mouth.

 

“We wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t insisted on going outside all those years ago,” Isis huffs. She can feel Malik’s grip slipping behind her as her half of the work increases.

 

“You want to play _that_ game, sister? Tell me who took me outside in the first place?”

 

Isis says nothing in return, and she halts—just long enough for it to be painful.

 

Malik grunts as Anzu's arms shake from the strain.

 

“Sis... Sister, what are you doing? I can't—”

 

“Let go, Malik,” she says lowly.

 

He doesn't know where he finds the extra strength, and he contorts Anzu's mouth with a questioning, defiant curl of her lower lip.

 

“Why should I—”

 

“Lower Rishid's body _gently_ and find some place to hide, Malik. You are already getting tired, and it is unwise to give your dark self the opportunity to exterminate us all in one blow.”

 

His sister's voice is soft, but there is no tenderness to her words. The tingling in Anzu's arms is unbearable, and he has no choice but to heed his sister's advice as she makes the cue to kneel. They set Rishid on the ground, _gently_ , and Isis moves to take the unconscious man's arms over her shoulders.

 

“Um,” Malik squints through clouded, azure eyes. He sees Isis stand, holding Rishid's arms across her collar, and her frame disappears beneath their brother's towering bulk. “Isis, are you _sure_ you—”

 

“Go. _Now_ ,” Isis grunts. “I will take care of it.”

 

Malik turns away with a knitted brow, but takes a moment to look back again. Isis hisses and huffs through her teeth; it is clear she is challenged by the distribution of weight, but Malik notes that his sister is also moving faster than when he had tried to help her previously, and she disappears in the darkness of the hall.

 

Malik blames the sudden feeling of inadequacy on Anzu's feminine fragility, and he runs in the other direction.

 

**T r a n s i t i o n**

 

They are still recovering from the events of Battle City and the destruction of Alcatraz, but they find the time to relax when they dock the boat at a port in West Bengal.

 

Isis politely excuses herself from their meal so she can contact her affiliates in Egypt. She insists it's a business call and it won't be long.

 

Twenty minutes pass, and Malik is irked as her plate has gotten cold. He tells Rishid to stay seated and walks off to find their sister.

 

He travels two blocks from the restaurant, and despite the presence of a veil, the gold and white of her modern _kalasiris_ is easy to spot among the brightly colored _saris_ and _dupattas_ of the locals. Her back is turned to him, and he crouches as she leans against a payphone by the busy street. He readies his fingers in a tickling motion, but stops when he hears her speaking in hushed Sa'idi Arabic.

 

“... don't hesitate if they're wearing a purple cloak. Keep it contained and contact me when it's done...”

 

Malik squints.

 

“... don't worry about any of that. Let me take care of it. You and I both know I have developed apt skills on the matter...”

 

Malik blinks, and Isis winds the metal coil of the phone around her finger with a wry chuckle.

 

“... there is no need for that. The Rod is gone, along with my Torque. You're likely to encounter more 'tangible' threats from here on. I trust you have plenty of confidence in that area...”

 

He doesn't like her tone, and waits another minute with his hands akimbo before she hangs up and turns around. Her eyes widen with a blink.

 

“How long have you been standing there?”

 

“What was that about?” Malik points to the phone, and she rolls her shoulders as she closes her eyes.

 

“Exactly what I said it was,” Isis claims. “A business call.”

 

**A f t e r m a t h**

 

It is a month after the Pharaoh's ascension, and their duty as Gravekeepers has ended.

 

It is late when Malik arrives at their duplex, done with his wild bout in the local pubs and the nightlife of Cairo. He can hear voices as he approaches his bedroom.

 

“What do we do, Lady Isis?” Rishid asks. He sounds worried.

 

“I make a phone call and he disappears.” Isis sounds like she was woken out of a deep slumber and wants to yawn.

 

“But this badge here... When his organization gets word, they will—”

 

“Write it off as a field loss,” Isis says tiredly.

 

This time, she does yawn.

 

“But what if more come?” Rishid asks.

 

“Then you help my men with the heavy lifting while I worry about the fine details,” Isis says matter-of-factly. “Malik has a talent for making messes, but how fortunate for us all that I have accumulated a well of resources and a lifetime's experience of cleaning them up.”

 

Malik tries to give Isis the benefit of the doubt and attributes the underlying irritation to an interrupted night's sleep.

 

“Isis, Rishid,” Malik finally speaks as he rounds the corner to his room. “What...?”

 

He cannot bring himself to say anything else as he sees a man lying in a bright red puddle at the foot of his bed. Rishid holds a clean blanket in his hands with a concerned stare.

 

“Don't worry about it,” Isis says simply. Malik is not certain whether to be relieved or frightened when he realizes the blood splattered across her face is not hers.

 

Isis wipes the blood off the knife before handing it to Rishid. She then takes the dirtied sheet out of his hands, and the blanket floats and falls over the body with the casual flick of her wrists.

 

“I will take care of it.”

 

**O r d e r**

 

“Let me go!”

 

Her guards do as he says, and Malik's face collides with the cold, waxed floor of the museum. Rishid winces at Isis' side as her guards stand beside their little brother with carbines slung across their chests.

 

“Must you undermine everything I do?” Isis asks. Her back is turned as her fingers trail along the golden chair, a precious artifact from the 18th Dynasty and the newest acquisition for her next exhibit. “Trying to contact the police, after all these years? Of all the times you decide to be conscionable about your decisions.”

 

“Living in the light requires a sacrifice,” Malik shakes as he gets to his knees. His wrists are bruised from the handcuffs behind his back. “If we are going are to be a part of this world, then we need to clean our hands of our past.”

 

“While I admire your determination to repair the damage your syndicate caused, you are far too late,” Isis says coldly. “That job is an ongoing work in progress.”

 

“I don't need you to clean up my messes,” Malik seethes.

 

“You had all that time to explore during our time apart, and still, you don't know how the world works,” Isis turns to face him. “You would have perished long ago had it not been for my influence back then, and you will fair far worse now that the Items are sealed.”

 

She sighs and takes her seat, reclines, and crosses her legs.

 

“You would not last in prison, Malik. I am doing you a service.”

 

“THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE IN WHAT YOU'RE GOING TO DO TO ME!” Malik blares. “You have the damn _nerve_ to lecture me about prison when you're locking me away in a hole in Sinai!”

 

“A fully furnished hole in Sinai with ample amenities,” Isis specifies. “Until the dust settles, however long that may be. I bear the Torque no longer, so I am remiss to tell you I cannot give you a projected date at this time.”

 

“You domineering _bitch_!” Malik roars. “Don't think for a moment I don't know exactly what you're doing!”

 

He motions to charge her and get to his feet, and the guard to his right strikes the back of his head with the buttstock of his weapon.

 

Rishid recoils as Malik thuds to his knees with a gasp.

 

“Lady Isis,” Rishid whispers urgently.

 

“He will be fine,” she assures, and she closes her eyes as she rests an elbow on one of the chair's arms. “No harm will come to either of you—so long as you follow the plan.”

 

“Don't listen to her, Rishid!” Malik screams. “She's just doing this to protect herself! She knows if I do the right thing, then she'll—”

 

“You honestly think after _everything_ you've done, you have the standing to tell _me_ what is the right thing to do?” Isis asks lowly. “Everything I have done in my life has been to protect _you_ , little brother. Our goals may differ, but I assure you, all I want is what is best for this family.”

 

“Liar!” Malik exclaims. “Everything you do is because you're _selfish_! You had the freedom to come and go as you pleased and it still wasn't enough, all because Father paid attention to me for being born as his _son._ It was the _one_ _thing_ you never got in your life and you've always looked for some way to screw me over because of it! You don't want what is best for me; _you_ _want_ _what is best for yourself_!”

 

She places her chin atop her knuckles and regards his words with a small, thoughtful smile.

 

“Mmm... perhaps,” Isis confesses. “But I strongly argue what I've wanted has also been in your best interest.”

 

Malik hisses at that.

 

“You're so full of yourself, you really think—”

 

“I do not deny your hardships, little brother,” Isis interjects with the wave of her hand. “I am sorry you had to suffer under the knife, as well as what happened the year after, but I think much of what transpired from that day has been to your benefit— _at my expense_.”

 

“What?” Malik growls. The handcuffs clink as his mind switches to a visceral reaction, scratching at his wrists in an attempt to relieve the pressure.

 

“You killed our father and abandoned your post. While you traveled the world with Rishid, I stayed in Egypt and took over your duties. While you built your syndicate and made a profit on the black market, I built connections and ensured your actions would not come to light. When you bared your back to the Pharaoh, I stood by your side and translated the scars. When it came time for him to ascend, all you needed to do as the role of our clan's 'leader' was be present for the event, while I provided the transportation and the necessary guidance at the tomb. When you disbanded the Ghouls, I gave you _and_ Rishid time to rebuild your lives, while I took care of the loose ends.”

 

“So what is it you want, then?” Malik asks with a sneer. “You want me to say 'Thank you, my _gracious_ sister, for sending your guards to kidnap me and drag me here in the middle of the night,' all so I can't undo your hard work?”

 

“I do everything in my power to ensure your existence is as painless as possible and _still_ you fight my efforts,” Isis sighs. “If I didn't know any better, I would say your greatest joy in life is to make mine difficult.”

 

“At this moment, I would say it's in my top three,” Malik quips through his teeth.

 

Isis does not appreciate the sentiment.

 

“In that case, I regret to inform you that you are going to feel unfulfilled for an indeterminate amount of time,” she snaps. “Take him to Adabiya for transport.”

 

The guards grab Malik by the arms and lift him to his feet. He locks eyes with Rishid.

 

“Rishid, stop them!” he shouts. “Why are you letting her do this to me?!”

 

“Rishid values your safety above all else,” Isis states. “He has done well up to this point, but we are in agreement that, at present, I have better means to serve this purpose.”

 

“NO!” Malik cries. “Rishid, no! Rishid, stop her! Rishid, help me!”

 

There is a painful tension in Rishid's chest as he watches Malik kick wildly in the guards' grip, before the platinum blond Egyptian wrenches his head to plead over his shoulder.

 

The tears flow over his cheeks.

 

“Rishid, don’t let her do this!” he sobs. “Stop this! _Please_! Rishid! _RISHID_!”

 

Isis looks at Rishid with a questioning glance and drums her fingers on the arm of the chair. She knows, even after their agreement, that he is considering the knife sheathed at his waist.

 

His fingers twitch.

 

“Think carefully, Rishid.”

 

She curves her index finger to beckon a guard from the shadows, and the man steps forward with a rifle aimed at Malik's backside.

 

“Steel for lead,” Isis traces the nail of her thumb across her throat. “You decide if it is a worthwhile transaction.”

 

His fingers curve to settle into fists, and she smiles.

 

Rishid bows his head with a frown, and he does nothing.

 

**END**


End file.
